Defending Against Affliction

by Connor Mccoy

  Tom itched. He scratched his arm. Was that the virus? He checked the skin of his right arm for the fifth time. No, no dry skin, no obvious sign of the virus, just a red spot where he had scratched. The truth was that Tom was suffering from a different malady—boredom.

  He had been cooped up in this tent for two whole days. He ate in here, slept in here, went to the bathroom in here, washed in here, paced in here, sat in here, lay in here, and thought in here. The problem was he couldn’t actually do anything in here. He couldn’t help anybody in town. He couldn’t help with his family’s crops. He couldn’t spend any time with his kids.

  So, the first time his skin itched, his heart quickened. Perhaps he was showing the first signs of the disease. But no, it was just the stagnant air in this place. It was irritating him.

  Things got even worse when Cheryl had visited him last night. The news was horrific—Simon Terrell had caught the disease. Sarah Shelton had quarantined herself voluntarily. Not long after Simon’s condition was discovered, the White family down the street reported that the Poitras couple had become sick as well.

  Thomas Criver was a man of action. As a kid, he loved running and playing in his backyard. His movie and TV heroes were men with great fighting skill and sardonic wit. School was like prison. When he sat at his desk in class, he felt as if he was chained to it. He relished time devoted to physical activity, whether it was football in high school and college, his years of martial arts training, or his time as a security guard. Basically, it was hell for Tom to do…nothing. It was even worse when there was trouble surrounding him and he was powerless to do anything about it.

  Finally, he got up and walked to the tent entrance. Thanks to the see-through nature of the plastic, he could at least see the outside. Better yet, the tent was pointed toward the street.

  He suddenly pictured his grandmother seated on a bench in the park. She said she liked to engage in “people watching.” Young Tom thought it sounded boring. Today, it was one of his only options to keep from going stir crazy.

  So, he pulled up a chair and looked outside.

  “Come in,” Tran said in response to the tap on the tent. The orange flap opened up and Cheryl stepped inside.

  The tent lay on the edge of the Crivers’ yard, a short distance from Tom’s quarantine tent. The doctor had acted quickly to turn his tent into his personal laboratory. The folding table Cheryl had provided was littered with vials, a microscope and other laboratory equipment. Tran was seated on a folding chair, examining his work through a microscope.

  Cheryl clutched a basket of fresh apples, oranges and grapes. “They’re fresh. The neighbors pitched in to make this.”

  “You’re going to spoil me.” Tran laughed as he glanced at another basket by his chair’s legs. “Besides, Miss Lauren was by earlier.”

  Cheryl smiled. “She got to see you?”

  “It didn’t last long. I told her everything I learned about the disease so far. She had to deliver the information to a runner who could take it to the hospital.” Tran turned to Cheryl, eyeing her basket with some unease. “I don’t wish to sound ungrateful, but are you sure there’s no one in your community who needs that more?”

  “Hunger’s no longer an issue,” Cheryl said, “We have more than enough gardens. Besides, figuring out what’s happened to the town is more important.” She placed the fruit down on the floor, as there was no clean spot on the table available, plus she didn’t want to disturb the doctor’s work.

  “You want answers,” Tran said, eyes back on his work.

  “Everyone wants answers.”

  “Yes, but you have something more on your mind.”

  Cheryl folded her arms. “I want my husband back, but I don’t know how to clear him.” She sighed. “This damn bug is spreading. People are terrified. I’m running around trying to help everyone while keeping an eye on my kids.”

  Tran looked up and wiped the sweat off his forehead. “I have made some progress. I’m sure it’s not bacterial in nature.” After scooting his chair over, he reached for a couple of papers, all covered with scribbling.

  “There are a number of methods to detect viral infections. When the body is infected, it tries to fight off the virus by developing antibodies. If antibodies are present, it means the person was infected either in the past or very recently.”

  Cheryl waited as Tran reached past his notes to a sealed cup with blood inside. “This was taken from Waylon.” He then pointed to a second cup beside it.

  “This is his wife. I found evidence of the same infection in both of them. Of course, if I had my full resources available I could better discern what this virus is. I have to go off memory for so much.” He then turned to the former soldier.

  “This could be a neurological disorder, perhaps a form of encephalitis, although this might be closer to meningitis. The symptoms are very similar, fever, headache, and delirium. Though most meningitis cases don’t produce rashes.”

  Cheryl wasn’t sure whether this was good news or not. “So, if it’s a virus, what does that mean for us?”

  “If it’s not bacteria, you can’t use antibiotics. With a virus, you just have to fortify your body to help it fight the disease. If this was viral meningitis, I’d say you got the long end of the stick, since it’s rarely fatal.” He glared at the blood vial. “But what’s in the bodies of your neighbors, I still can’t say.”

  “But no one has died yet.”

  “Right. Yet.” Tran’s eyes fixed on Cheryl’s. “If worse comes to worse, you may have to consider drastic actions. If other people are contracting the disease in spite of your quarantines and you can’t trace the origin of the virus, you may have to break up the community entirely.”

  A chill ran down Cheryl’s back. “There’s no way it’d come to that. We survived a military occupation. We can beat a damned disease.”

  Tran smiled wryly. “The First World War killed about thirty-eight million people. World War Two killed about sixty, perhaps eighty million. A few centuries before that, the Black Death slaughtered perhaps more than a hundred million people without the aid of bullets, tanks or bombs.” The doctor rose out of his seat.

  “When Mother Nature decides to thin the human herd, she can be a more brutal enemy than any human being with a weapon, even a nuclear missile. Keep in mind the recent nuclear war didn’t do much of the killing. It was the aftermath, the heat, the disease, the lack of resources that put millions in the grave.”

  Cheryl tried to stay composed. Part of her had to admit Tran was giving her some brutal truth medicine. “All right,” she said softly, “so, what we do until Mother Nature decides to stop acting like a bitch and leave us alone?”

  Tran chuckled. “I like your wit. My mother would have loved you.” He then turned and started gathering clean cups. “I can at least test Thomas for the virus. If it comes through in the clear and he hasn’t manifested symptoms, I can’t say he needs to be in quarantine any longer.”

  It happened again. The neighbor left his house, the second time today, with his mask covering his face. Everybody Tom had observed on the streets either were using the masks Cheryl had passed out or muffling their faces with their shirts.

  “This is unreal,” he whispered.

  But at the very least, these people were, in fact, leaving their homes. Sometimes it took hours for anybody to open the door of their home and brave a walk outside. Their neighborhood used to be lively, vibrant. Many of these people had been happy to have normalcy since the great disaster that had befallen their nation. Now they had retreated indoors.

  A dark shadow blocked Tom’s view. “Hello!” said a voice from the outside. Tom stood up. Doctor Tran stood there, dressed in his protective suit. “You seemed to be deep in thought. I almost hated to interrupt you.”

  “There’s nothing going on in here except my game of ‘Rear Window.’”

  “I don’t believe I know that game.”

  “It’s a movie. Stars Jimmy Stewart. He gets hurt, and mus
t stay inside his apartment. He watches what’s going on next door and thinks he sees somebody getting killed. But all I’ve seen today is a bunch of nothing. Almost no one wants to come outside.”

  “I wish I could say I had definitive answers, but at least I can test you for the disease. By the end of the day, we’ll know one way or the other.”

  Tran undid the first layer of plastic. Tom stood back as Tran rezipped the plastic, then worked on the next plastic barrier that separated him from the doctor. At last, he would know his fate.

  Chapter Nine

  Tom knocked for the fourth time. Still no answer. “What the hell? Waylon!” No one responded to Tom’s calls.

  Both he and Tran were at the front door, dressed in full body gear. No one had responded to their calls. Now that the doctor had determined Tom had no trace of the virus in his system, Tom was raring to help Tran treat his neighbors and check on their progress.

  Finally, Tom took out his key and unlocked the front door. Waylon had provided them with a house key in case neither he nor his wife was in any condition to open it.

  Tom pushed the door open. “Waylon?”

  He went in first. Tran followed. The living room lay still, like a tomb. Light poured in through windows, falling on a still couch and a rocking chair.

  “Waylon, it’s Tom and Doctor Tran!” Heart racing, Tom hurried through the living room. No, perhaps it’s not the worst. They could both be in bed sleeping.

  By the time he walked into the dining room, his hopes took a hit. Waylon lay flat on his back near the kitchen table. Sweat poured across his body. He was dressed only in his boxers. Days-old stubble covered his face. His eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. He was mumbling in an apparent state of delirium. Even as Tom and Tran hovered over him, he did not respond.

  “Waylon!” Tom knelt down. “Waylon! Come on, it’s me, it’s Tom Criver. Snap out of it!”

  “Don’t touch him. Sudden jolts could worsen his condition.” Tran shined a light into Waylon’s right eye. “He’s in a deep state of delirium.”

  Waylon’s voice sounded like “Raaah, Raaaaa, Baaaa…”

  “He could be in an altered state of consciousness or he may have lost speech ability. He might have suffered a stroke.” He then stood up. “His wife. Quickly. At least we know Waylon’s alive.”

  The pair hurried to his wife’s bedroom. The young woman lay on her side, clad in small shorts and a limp gray tank top. Her mouth lay open, frozen in an apparent agony. Fresh scratches adorned her legs and thighs. Her arms crossed her stomach.

  Tran quickly inspected her. Even inside his suit, Tom’s skin prickled with a sudden chill. This woman did not look alive. Worse, it seemed she died an agonizing death.

  Then, the doctor looked up. He shook his head once.

  Outside the Criver home, Cheryl kept watch on the orange tent that housed Tran’s laboratory. Tom approached. Cheryl gave him a quick glance, communicating unspoken grief and worry. Tom nodded in return, conveying his sympathies and understanding. He then responded further by reaching around and holding Cheryl by the stomach. She then stepped back a little into his embrace.

  “Mom?” Annie approached. “What’s Doctor Tran been doing in there?”

  Cheryl smiled. “It’s important work, sweetie.”

  “What is it?”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s…it’s boring. Trust me.”

  Annie shrugged. She seemed dissatisfied with the answer, but accepted it and returned to the house.

  Of course, neither Tom nor Cheryl had wanted to tell the truth—Doctor Tran was conducting an autopsy on Sheila’s body. It was grisly work. There was no reason in the world to tell their children that their neighbor’s corpse was being opened up and examined to find the circumstances of her death.

  A short while later, Tran emerged from his tent. Though his face now was free of his medical mask, he still was dressed in his scrubs. “It’s done.”

  “So, what happened?” Cheryl asked.

  “It wasn’t the infection or the itching. She didn’t lose enough blood. The cause of death was some type of brain inflammation. It appears I was on the right track. This is a neurological disease, quite similar to meningitis. In fact, it could be a new, mutated strain, more severe than many viral strains. The disease goes after the lining between the brain and the skull. In her case, the damage was fatal.”

  Cheryl sank her head against Tom’s torso. Tom comforted her for a while longer before saying, “But we do know more about this thing, don’t we? We can fight it.”

  “Short of shrinking you down and using your fighting skills to punch out the virus, I would say the best we’ve got is the treatment we’d use for fighting neurological ailments like this, but I have no miracle cure if that’s what you mean.”

  “Daddy! Daddy!”

  The anguished yells made Tom turn around and run to the door. Jackie and Kristin were running toward him, eyes full of tears.

  “What’s wrong?” He hurried and embraced them both.

  “They’re gone!” Kristin said amid sobs.

  “Mr. and Mrs. White!” Jackie added.

  It was true. Tom had finished looking into their home. The White family had left sometime yesterday. A first check had confirmed their departure. Tom then waited until morning so he could further investigate their home. Eventually, he found they had left a note explaining their intentions. They just couldn’t stay here and risk the health of themselves and their family.

  Tom shuffled down the walkway. Obadiah Stone stood there on the sidewalk, looking no less dour.

  “Helping those kids get this house in order was one of the proudest things I’ve done since the occupation.” Bowing his head, Stone held up the notice the Whites left behind.

  “Larry White has been in the Scouts since he was a kid. He knows the outdoors. It helped him survive. It’ll help him, his wife, and his girls, all of them to have a good chance of surviving until they make it to another town.”

  Tom took the paper. He seized it hard in the middle. He was furious, furious at them for leaving with Kristin and Jackie’s friends, and angry that their community, on the verge of thriving, now was under siege.

  Stone reached into his flannel shirt and pulled out the mask Cheryl had given him. “Look, I think you ought to give this to someone else. I’m sure there’s someone else who needs it.”

  “Why?” Tom brushed it off. “You need it. Everyone needs one.”

  “Look, what happens to me isn’t as important as these kids,” Stone said, “You shouldn’t waste your resources on old folk like me. I get sick…” He looked to the horizon down the street. “Well, I’ll just head off out there.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Tom started walking down the walkway. “No one’s expendable. We need you. You’re a leader. You’ve got experience. You’ve got almost sixty years of memories in a world that doesn’t even exist anymore. We need that.” He softened his tone. “We need you for as long as you can stay with us.”

  Tom’s delivery seemed to shake up Stone. He put the mask back under his shirt. “I see where you’re coming from.” He sighed.

  “I guess it’s just been a little harder than I imagined. It’s like I’m surrounded by ghosts. Last week, I called for Hernando and some of the others, and then I forgot they weren’t around.” He scratched the back of his neck. “And hearing about Karen just made me feel worse. She was always a delight to us. Knowing what those bastards did, it makes me wonder what my purpose is anymore.”

  Tom slowed, allowing Stone to catch up. They approached the shadow of the next house. “If you’re alive, I think that’s purpose enough. Those men who were part of your group, I got to know them. I feel that same void. We both were out there. We both fought the same enemy. We tried our best. Believe me, you’re not the only one who’s wondering if things could be different…”

  A shout cut him off. It took a moment for Tom to realize who had shouted. It was Doctor Tran!

  He rushed do
wn the walkway with Stone dashing beside him. Tran’s shout came from the home of Sheryl Poitras—“Sheryl with an S” as Tom’s kids called her. The doctor was barring the space between Sheryl, who was standing outside, wobbling, with her husband clutching her, and Rodney.

  “—you leave her alone!” Tran finished. Neither Tom nor Stone had heard the beginning of his complaint.

  “I said where is she going?” Rodney asked. Tom never had heard his neighbor be this belligerent either. This was getting ugly, fast.

  “I thought if she got some fresh air it would help her,” Jacob said. Sheryl just nodded.

  “She shouldn’t even be out here,” Rodney said.

  “What’s all the fuss about?” Tom glared at Rodney. “Heard enough screaming here to wake the dead.”

  Rodney straightened up. The arrival of Tom and Stone perhaps had rattled him a little. “Sheryl and Jacob are sick. They were headed toward my house.”

  “We were not!” Jacob shot back.

  “Yeah, well you sure as Hell were pointed my way,” Rodney said.

  “Easy, badger.” Stone eyed Rodney. “I don’t think they were going to pay you a house call.”

  Rodney swallowed. He seemed to be embarrassed by his outburst. “Maybe not, but we don’t know who’s next. They should go to Doctor Lauren’s hospital.”

  “How? Maybe they’ll call a taxi?” Tran shook his head. “These two obviously aren’t in any condition to get there on foot. It’d take about, oh, maybe two days!”

  “What about the truck?” Rodney turned to Tom. “That truck you used to drive to Carrollton. Use that to take the sick there.”

  “Rod, we can’t use our fuel unless we absolutely must. If we keep using it like a taxi, we’ll be out of fuel in probably a week or two,” Tom said.

  “Well I’m sorry, but if we don’t beat this plague or whatever the hell we got, nobody’s going to be left alive to care.” Rodney pointed to the house one door down.

  “I have three kids in that house. One of them is just three. If something happens to me and Pat, who’s going to take care of them?” The man shook.